The Ballad of El Goodo

I live in a tiny space. A tiny perfect little space that contains a universe. And that space is the mysterious, boundless universe known as music. It is infinitely deep and wide, it contains all things. One note can summon all the colors visible and many only hinted at by the visible world.

That's my world.

And near the middle of that world, very close to its perfect beating heart, was Alex Chilton.

Alex died last week, on March 17, much too soon at age 59. Alex was all the good things about music as an art. He was intelligent, spirited, uncompromising, talented, willful ... brilliant is too vague a word. His body of work serves as a cogent commentary of all that surrounded him in the musical world. He took the best of the Beatles and discarded the rest. He revered soul, tin pan alley, New Orleans barrelhouse, blues in all forms, and good old pop music. And he could play it all.

He was humble. It was his music that was audacious.

Don't just listen to Big Star. Or his solo work. Or the Box Tops. Listen to all of it. Repeatedly. And deeply.

God bless you Alex.